


Soft As The Stones

by Deiwimin



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dehumanisation, Descent into Madness, Isolation, Knives, Loss of Identity, M/M, Rape, Starvation and Thirst, Stockholm Syndrome, The Thramsay Dream, Torture, flaying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:28:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22247854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deiwimin/pseuds/Deiwimin
Summary: Graphic plummet into Reek.
Relationships: Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy, Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy/Reek
Comments: 13
Kudos: 32





	Soft As The Stones

**Author's Note:**

> Finally I post again!

Dark castle walls leaking coldly down the creases. Little streams of sweet poison. Theon was too frightened to even spare them a second glance. It wasn’t the lack of pureness he was concerned about. His throat was so dry, he would gladly take that risk. _Oh he would risk it for one measly throat infection._ Compared to the pain he has endured; the whipping, flogging, starvation. The damned _thirst._

He’d jolly welcome the plague if need be.

He had been disgraced ever since Ramsay brought him to the Dreadfort, stripped off his finery, disallowed even the smallest meal. Around a fortnite ago. In the beginning, he resisted the urge to debase himself. Prince of the Iron Islands, he was Theon Greyjoy. Ironborn. Even after the lowest of filth bullied him like the town fool, he remained resilient. He had been kicked to the floors, muddy boots smearing the ground all over him. Made to crawl on all fours. He was moved into a dingier dungeon cell. That’s where Theon began losing his pride. He had to beg and beg for scraps, until days passed. Then he begged for a death that was never granted. Whipped for disrespect, cut for ungratefulness. Shackled and at times tied up, to restrain him from self-slaughter.

If Theon took a lick, he’d _know_. He hated and despised the tyrant, now he needed him too. But what’s a drop of water? He need only turn a slight bit. Then his tongue could taste the cool splash. Though last time he tried, Snow hung him upside down, covering him with very hungry rats. He still had scars over his inner thigh and even on his crotch. He was correct, as through his empty eyed pondering Theon suddenly recognised dark leather boots, covered in earthy damp matter.

“Princeling? Will you cry for me not? I am to leave for my lordly obligations. Who knows when I shall be back. It might be days, weeks even.” Theon looked up fearfully. A myriad of thoughts plagued him in that moment. He did shed a tear, but not because he would miss the monster in pig’s skin. He was lamenting on how he would feed. As if reading it from his eyes, Ramsay wiped the droplet with the curled side of his index. He smiled in delight. Chasing the wrinkles away from his sleeves, he stared off gleefully apathetic. “Are you finally going to obey, I wonder? When I come back, you’d better swear your fealty to me like a good subservient subject.”

Seeing he wasn’t getting any water or food today; the defiance inside came back. Holding back a tremor, the kraken spoke urgently. “I am a Prince of the Iron Islands, bastard. You should be scrubbing at my feet.” He would have spit on the ground if there was any to spare. Theon had seen it all, maybe the bastard would kill him in a fit of rage and be done with it. Or maybe he would be taking lashes again. He was certain Ramsay couldn’t harm him beyond repair, he was a valuable hostage after all. Damaging him would be going against his father’s wishes. A loud smack could be heard in the cool of the cell. Theon’s face was a flush of red, burning fiercely in the sting. But he’s had worse.

“Don’t worry you little cunt. When I return, I shall twist you shattered. I shall put you back piece by piece, of each the most beautiful parts. How long can you fight back for? Just how deep do you wish to go? How long until you cannot resist licking at my toenails for forgiveness?” Ramsay was barely containing his seething moods. “I have arranged for one of my boys to take care of you while I’m gone. I will make sure he knows of your disrespect towards your lord.”

Skinner was not a kind man, not even to his own mother. He heard one of the other boys mention it, unmoved by the gravity. Killed her in a wrangle. Theon was greeted by a bucket of water, ice cold, poured all over him. He sputtered before he realised it was something he could have drank. He began shaking all over freezing, while glaring up unforgiving at the soldier above him. “Do you know why you needed this?” He did not cease his speech. “Because you need to wake up little prince. Lord Ramsay is disappointed in you, and from what I’ve understood, it was because you didn’t keep your big mouth shut. So I am here to teach you manners.”

Before he could respond Theon was hauled up to stand. He felt wobbly, and his head ached, feeling weaker than before. He wanted to return to the stony ground. The shackles were clanking against his wrists as the man worked them, and finally thumped down. Skinner walked him out of his little cell and into a chamber. No matter what he does, he should remain strong willed. 

Leather straps came over his wrists as he tried to struggle away. Then his legs were bound too. Skinner brought forth a stool and sat on it. In his hand there was a sharp device Theon couldn’t recognise. Skinner grabbed his pinky, and once he realised the aspiration he attempted to twist his fingers out of Skinner’s grasp violently. But the grip was strong, and none could escape in the end. The vile man dug a sharp tip under his pinky’s nail as the sensitive area caused Theon to squirm. It’s just one nail, just one, he told himself. Even Arya had this happen to her a time. It invaded deeper on top of the soft flesh, and it bled. His nerves were screaming in unison flaring up. “Stop, stop! What do you want this time?” His anxiety ridden breaths were cut short by pain. Nail was being slowly separated from skin.

“My task is simple princeling; all I need is a pledge of fealty. Yield and submit completely, and I have been instructed to be a whole lot nicer after.” Theon went silent; until the tool sliced through the unholy gap, sending his brain in light and colour. Theon was screaming, vision going between red and white. Skinner was pulling it out of the nail bed, firmly but without urgency. Drawing out his suffering. After the second finger, Theon pleaded for it to stop, and promised he would be true to Lord Ramsay when he returned on Blood. Skinner saw the lie and smashed it away with a painful jab in his thumb. When he was done, Theon had nine bloodied fingers, some blooming into purplish black. His hands were throbbing, and all he had left was the index on his right hand. Skinner gladly promised to rip out the nails in his toes if he was to go back on his word. Something predicted to Theon the lowborn maggot would like that very much.

Theon would say what he had to, he would wait until they came for him. He would then spit on the bastard’s face and have him slowly roasting inch by inch over an unkind flame. Skinner left him on the chair.

Next day Skinner came, bringing along two other boys and bright lights. They unstrapped him and cuffed him on a rack, not before removing all his clothes. “You say he’d let us, is that right?” A face he’d never seen before appeared in his vision. Their eyes locked and the kraken felt vulnerable, not that he was not. “He’s staring at me. The prisoner in a pretty cell as this should have eyes only for the dirt.” The man mused in a sneer. Mocking the rotted stones across him.

“I think he’s not very good at learning his place. Though it’s fine, we are here for it.” Skinner held out candles which the other two smugly retrieved in their grasps. They lit them up with the torch and Theon wished for darkness once more. They started teasing him with the flames, on his arms, buttocks, feet, then they held them closer, and the burn would linger. When they directed the heat on his armpits, he yelped helplessly. He was trembling. Contemplate as he may, he couldn’t decide which body part would be worst to burn.

He almost cried for them to stop; but they did so themselves in time, after the satisfying blisters they had created. The third day came, but there was no one coming for him. Every piece of time he was anticipating, on alert. He would stare at the door afraid of what would come next, but exerted; from the dull and sharp aching all over he couldn’t keep his eye open for much.

He was woken up with another pail of runny winter snow. Theon licked the wetness off his lip desperately, while his bones were vibrating in frost and misery. He realised in horror he couldn’t feel his limbs. “Awake are you? Know what day this is little prince? You have been here for four days already. Your lord did say you shouldn’t have to starve yourself dead, so I’m here to feed you, like a good dog.” At the mention of eating, the insult fell into a void. He took Theon off the rack and back on the chair. That pain was most welcome. With him, Skinner had a cup of water, and old bread, along with an egg. The prince began to salivate what was left of his body’s liquids.

The water was chilling but sweet, the bread and cooked egg in turn were their own blessings. He forcibly said his thanks to the man who had him screaming just two days ago. Theon struggled to swallow the food at times, even when he fully chewed all of it. Skinner said he’d have left him be if it wasn’t for the order to keep Theon alive. He felt immeasurably full afterwards, and an unwanted acknowledgement towards Ramsay crept up his gut. Who said his head wasn’t working against his will.

The next days he had spent separated from the outside. He wouldn’t know the length in which he spent sitting strapped down, in a dark, pitch black room. After what had seemed like a life and more; he was ready in doing anything to see colour, a human being, Skinner, Those other two, even the Bastard of Bolton himself.

He slept the first night, then the second. After those, he wouldn't know whether the owls were hunting or the worms were squirming. He could not sleep, he was bound on restless isolation, trying to swallow him. Theon caught himself jitter and speak to himself, and that’s when he felt he might have maddened by the cold and quiet. Then he calmly chanted; _they will come, they’ll come for me. They will be here soon._ He was lying to himself, Theon. And he could not anymore tell if he meant they or they. He shrank at the thought of anyone discovering him bathing in his own- living no better than swine. Worse that.

The trance was forced out the door the moment it opened, the sudden light uncovering a large shadow. “Why Theon, you have lost yet more weight since I last saw you. You stink too. Have my men not been treating you well?” Theon’s eyes burned, but he knew with painful sureness the man standing in front of him. Barely keeping his face to the brightness, he knew he should say something.

 _Not Snow, not Snow, not Snow, not Snow._ “Yes, Lord Ramsay. They’ve been...good to me.” he rasped, not having anything to drink or eat in days. It was far from the truth, but that should be what Ramsay would’ve wanted to hear, no? What must have been a grinning face grew into a strict straight line.

“Who’s lord would that be? And I do not recall telling you to lie. If you are to be loyal, you will always tell of the truth to me."

“My Lord Ramsay,” he choked, “Please forgive me.” He lowered his head in meekness, hoping to cause some effect. His throat ached, and as if by intuition, Ramsay pulled a skin from his side, grasping onto Theon’s face pushing the mouth open. In poured soft, silky water. The captive wished to sing, or cry. He moaned instead, like when Ros had more energy than neither bargained. The entrance was pulled out of Theon’s lips and he chased after it.  
He shakily looked up and far from the retracted water into Ramsay’s warmth raping cold eyes. “Thank you so, very much my Lord.”

“Good to be a grateful serving man, for that you’ve made me glad. You deserved some relief. But you still lie to me princeling. My father says; a naked man has few secrets. Can you guess what man has none?” Shaking his head weakly Theon’s eyes darkened with possibilities. Is he going to beat him again? Burn him? As long as he lived intact enough to tell the tale.

“Well, good be the time we have. I will make myself very understood little princeling, and you would do well to remember all I teach you.” Something raged inside of Theon, Ramsay wore his palm on Theon’s filthy head and that flame smoked and withered. He was taught plenty, such as there was more to his _lord_ than taunting and whipping in this new dwelling.

“Did one of my boys do this to you?” Ramsay examined the swollen, scabbing mess with a tone, so gentle. But his eyes; another scroll of lore. He put a finger to his lip, Theon gave a small cry flinching, Ramsay pressed on, eyes staring unto his, warning and seeking. “Tell me which one.”

It did not seem a trick. “Skinner. -My lord.” Thankful he did not miss the last words. He smiled. Was this good? What would he say if it was another? He let go.

“Did anyone else come visit you, Greyjoy?” So soft was his voice, maternal. Theon nodded and told of the other two. Ramsay used his hand to brush through Theon’s tunic. “Do you see, now you report the truth.” Theon wished he could feel relief.

“But, no. I won’t forgive your lie until you deserve it.” A chill worried through Theon’s legs, numbing him with chaotic vagueness. His head was troubled up and he saw the stark gleam in the pale moons. Taken out of his side. A blade affixed to yellow bone. A flaying knife. So it had come to this, finally the North revealing itself for what it is. He felt not much fear as he should. Ramsay saw. Unchanged he wiped it once on a cloth. Of knives it was fine. It was brought to Theon’s finger and sliced evenly. After the red beads strung out Theon felt the bite. It became deeper along, and teeth ground against each other. Ramsay had a shape of his design, soon made a strip when he nudged under and firmly tugged apart from inner flesh. Theon heard himself screaming in long agony, all spiralling loudly out of grasp. His arms stilled violently in shock after the skin was divorced from Theon.

Taking deep gulps of breath he couldn’t be more drenched in his own gleaming fever. Slowly becoming unfeeling of the hot cornea hugging white, he was miles away. 

A snap of fingers rang Theon back into what was real. Ramsay was in front of his face, married to a fancy sated look. “Now, how did you like my boys’ treatment?” Slumped down, Theon began to slowly breathe.

“Not very well m’ lord.”

In time Theon learned to be loyal. He developed a habit of smiling out of nervousness to his dismay. He was even partly thankful for Lord Ramsay ridding him the defect. His teeth hurt though, and he had to remember that no woman would ever want to be close with him any longer. Not the cunnies actually, but it was all the same. This is why he shouldn’t be thankful. And now he should never smile. But Ramsay calls him different now. Reek. Because he reeks. Piddle, shit, bile and mud. A weathered curse. Well he reeked alright, and perhaps he may not wish to be an Ironborn prince anymore, but he was Theon. Theon the dark haired, strong willed man who will rule the Iron Islands one day.

Reek. Reek the pale haired, meek, little freak. Time he responded to Theon last, Ramsay had grabbed his leg; and through his breeches twisted and popped the knee right out its rigid socket. He screamed and wailed and begged for two days until he swore to never, ever utter the name again. Not even his head. It was difficult, because Theon would try sneak into his head as if it was a test, a game. Only his lord can play games. The notion of free thought terrified Reek. When he was having bad thoughts Ramsay knew, and he would punish him. Flayed his side once, because Ramsay knew of the passing thought to leave him. It was after some time Ramsay fucked him in the dungeon cell. He was being so good, that is why he allowed him to return from the torture rooms. Reek was _Ramsay’s_ and he had to understand that. If Ramsay Bolton wanted to use his slave, his property as a night jolly, he should.

Ramsay had given Reek a choice of punishment. The flaying knife or the tickler. Reek actualised his choice; the blade. Ramsay nearly rejoiced, rolling the tickler was so impersonal, while flaying was very much hands in deep, intimate. He had forgiven his Reek a little by the time he got the smooth wolf bone in his hand. Reek bled and bled as his squalls had nowhere to go, but stay in the tiny confines of the soft stones.

After, he grabbed onto Reek’s untouched hip and slid in forcibly, rocking him through the cries and wailing. He was purely Reek then, Theon was blinded, starved, twisted, broken, exploited and dead. Though not buried. The drowned God had no time, no pity, nothing for Theon. And Theon took his leave. Ramsay’s grunts were matched with small short screams, and when he came Reek sobbed, but ultimately stayed good and thanked his lord for the discipline.

When They took Moat Cailin, treachery tried impregnating Reek’s brain in increasing attempts. Even when they returned to proper castle walls, away from the ruins. The pernicious vibrancy called to him. He couldn’t take any more from his own mind. In tears, he confesses to his master and is rewarded for a good deed. That princeling was not going to take his precious Reek away. To help Reek, Ramsay ordered for a brand to be made. It would be something Reek could never forget. _Good_. He told himself. He can’t be forgetting how loving master is to Reek. That would be treason to his own being.

Bright kennels in the day, warm food by a generous hand. Nightly secrets. Cold castle walls, dripping pain and joy.

**Author's Note:**

> How romantic eh? I know, I’m a bloody sap me.


End file.
